


Jack and the Witch

by Luraia



Series: Little Jack [1]
Category: Mary Poppins (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Beginnings, Gen, I hope, Magic, Young Jack, but I promise it gets better, probably even a bit of humor, starts off a bit dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2019-10-29 20:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17815256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luraia/pseuds/Luraia
Summary: Jack was born in London, and he was apprenticed to Bert in London, but there was a period of his life spent outside of London, under the care of a wicked witch.  If only he knew a magical nanny who could come and save the day.  Oh well, everyone has their first meetings, even very old friends.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out rather...darker than I intended it to be when I first set out to write it. Not as dark as it could have gone, I suppose, but even so. It starts out with the death of Jack's mom, then throw in some moments of child abuse (verbal mostly, but on occasion it does get physical) and that's the beginning of this story. And this was meant to be the fun story that he tells to Jane to make her laugh.  
> Well...I guess I can at least say it does get better? And Jack turns out just fine, and is going to have Bert (and I will write that story eventually. Probably.) Oh well, I wrote it, so I might as well share it.

For the first month after his mama died, Jack existed in a sort of dark fog.  He knew there must have been sunshiny days, because summer was like that, even in London, but he didn’t remember the sunshine or birdsong or games or anything that he knew to be _good_.

He supposed he cried quite a bit, and signora Bianchi, who was just as motherly a person as a young orphan could hope for, had doubtless held him all the while.  He knew this, because he had strong memories of her holding him in her lap while little Sofia glared at him for taking her spot.  He didn’t really remember that first month properly though, just that he woke up one morning to the sound of a bird singing, and the dark was gone.  Not forever gone, but receded back into the regular shadows that all lives know, and not the heavy veil it had been.

He missed his mama, but it was a nice day, and it seemed his insides had been growing all that dark time, because now there was room inside him to miss his mama fiercely and to smile at the fine day.  And he had signora Bianchi and signor Bianchi (when he was home, which was seldom) and even with their eight children there was room enough for him too.  Even Sofia didn’t seem to mind him too much, except when he had her mother all to himself.  And he was living in the same neighborhood as before, only two houses sideways, with people he already sort of knew instead of being sent away to strangers.

That is not to say that living with the Bianchis was perfect.

Jack’s mama spoke to him in Spanish and in English.  She favored English, even though it was harder for her.

“In here, you are my Jacobo,” she told him.  “Out there, you are Jack the English boy.”

And then there was the accident, and everyone in the whole neighborhood was sorry about it, and he left his own home to go to the funeral and was taken home to a different house that was crowded to the roof but in a comfortable sort of way.

Jack was a bit confused by it all, but still young enough to expect adults to cart him around wherever they pleased, so when a sort of familiar woman was suddenly tucking him into bed that night, he still politely tried to say, “Thank you, Mrs. Bianchi.”

“No, no!” she scolded.  “I won’t be Mrs. Bianchi in my own home.  I am signora Bianchi.  We speak Italian here.”  And then she said quite a bit more, only in Italian, that Jack couldn’t follow, and left him more confused than ever.  And after that day, signora Bianchi was very firm; Jack wasn’t to ignore his heritage and he was to speak Italian in her household like a good little bambino.

At least three of her children tried to explain to her that Jack wasn’t actually Italian, but somehow this fact couldn’t fit inside her head.  Jack was an immigrant like them (or at least, his family was), he certainly wasn’t French or Irish, so he must be Italian.  Sure, his Italian sounded a bit funny, especially at first, but Jack’s mama had been mistakenly raising him English and he’d probably just learned the words a bit wrong.

So Jack went from mostly speaking English, except at home with his mama when they had a sort of secret language, to having to learn a third language or forever be in disgrace.  Most children would have responded in one of two ways; they would have embraced the new household and abandoned their old identity to fit in…or they would have resented the new household and rebelled.  Jack did neither.

When Jack was done crying, and his insides had grown big enough to carry around his loss, he laughed.  Even he couldn’t say why, perhaps simply because he’d cried for too long and he’d come out on the other side, but the fact that signora Bianchi remained convinced that Jack was a little Italian bambino, no matter how many times it was explained (and Jack had tried in Spanish once, and she had just shaken her head at his poor Italian) was the most hilarious thing he’d ever known.

He learned some Italian; even if he’d willfully tried to stay ignorant it would have been hard not to pick up a bit, and he rather enjoyed the new language.  And he thought signora Bianchi very kind.  But she wasn’t his mama, and he did just as signora Bianchi ordered him to do and he didn’t forget his heritage.

This led to occasional difficulties for him.  When he had time to think out his words carefully, he could figure out the right ones for the occasion.  In the Bianchi household, that would mean speaking Italian.  Out and about, that would mean English.  To his private self, that meant Spanish.

But when he was startled into speaking, when he didn’t have the time to think, or the speaking was for those little pleasantries that we are all taught when we are young for politeness, somehow the first words to come out were in Spanish.

“È _grazie_ , Jack!” he’d be scolded, after an incautious _gracias_ , and then she’d go on for a good five minutes about him speaking gibberish, and _what could his mama, god rest her soul, have been thinking to teach him such poor Italian_.

And something inside of Jack would feel very unpleasant.  It was a bit like guilt, and a bit like rage, and a bit like being tickled.  It made him feel like he had a bear caged up inside his chest and he didn’t like it.  He didn’t like that she made his mama sound like a bad mama.  And at the same time he didn’t like that he’d let signora Bianchi down, when she was so good and kind to him.  And it was funny too, because she still thought he was Italian.  And he didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry or to grind his teeth and growl.

“Never mind Mamma,” Giorgio would tell him.  “She doesn’t understand.”

And what he really meant was ‘she doesn’t understand what it’s like out there’.  Outside of the house, when Giorgio became George, and pretended there was no such country as Italy in existence.

Jack was still a very small child, and he didn’t have the words in any language to explain that he disagreed, but instinctively he felt that signora Bianchi _did_ understand; she understood all too well, and that in a lot of ways she was like Jack’s mama, only his mama had reacted to ‘out there’ by going in the opposite direction.  Jack didn’t know how to say any of this, even to himself, so he’d shrug and smile and do his chores or go and play and he’d try hard to remember his words.

And then one day, a man came around, and, though Jack didn’t know it, his life was about to be turned upside down again.

“Why aren’t you in school?” the man had asked Jack when he saw him playing outside, minding Sofia and the baby while signora Bianchi was busy and didn’t want little ones under foot.

“ _We speak Italian here_ ,” Jack had answered, in Italian, because that was an iron Rule.  And to Jack’s confusion, his simple words caused the man to grow so angry his face twisted into a horrible sort of snarl, and the next thing Jack knew, his ear was ringing and he’d fallen on the ground.

“Respect your elders, boy!” the man had shouted.

“ _No hurt my Jack_!” little Sofia had howled in response, and kicked the man in the shin with all her might and the baby screamed and the man turned so red that Jack rather worried he might be ill.

Jack was smart enough to know they were in danger, and he wasn’t about to let this man box Sofia’s ears, or worse, the baby’s, so he heaved the baby up and ran, trusting Sofia to have enough sense to follow.  She did.

Only that wasn’t the end of the mean man who didn’t respect signora Bianchi’s rules.  And at first all he asked was why Jack wasn’t in school.

“He’s just a baby,” Mrs. Bianchi answered (and she was Mrs. Bianchi in that moment.  Sitting at her own kitchen table, she allowed the man in and spoke to him in English and Jack and Sofia spied on them from the stairs and it was all _wrong_ ).

The man had not been impressed with that answer.

“He looked at least six to me.”

“He’s five,” said Mrs. Bianchi, and Jack wasn’t entirely sure if she was lying, or if it was just another one of those things that she believed with all her heart no matter how many times she was told otherwise.  At any rate, the man hadn’t believed her.  He wanted Jack’s records.

She didn’t seem to have Jack’s records, whatever those were.  She didn’t seem to think them important, either.

“Your neighbor says the boy isn’t one of yours.  That you took him when his mother died.”

“So what if I did?” demanded Mrs. Bianchi.  “The bambino needed a mamma.”

“There are rules for that sort of thing,” answered the man.  “ _We_ protect children in _this_ country.”

And Jack and Sofia weren’t sure how, but clearly the man was being rude again because they could see Mrs. Bianchi’s anger growing.

And that was the beginning of the end.  It didn’t happen overnight, not like Jack’s arrival in the household, but there were late night talks between signora and signor Bianchi, and there was a woman who was much nicer than the man who came to visit, and then one day all of Jack’s things were being tied up in a sack, and all ten of the Bianchis, from signor Bianchi down to the baby were hugging him, and signora Bianchi said (in Italian of course) “ _Never forget where you came from_.”

And in a nicer sort of world, the kind woman who’d come to talk to the family and explain why it was better this way, when they already had so many children to look after, and Jack needed schooling, and more along those lines, well, that was who would have come to collect Jack and bring him to his new home.

The world was neither kind nor cruel, though it felt a bit cruel in that moment, and it was the man who’d first boxed Jack’s ear who was to take him.  Jack had no idea where he was going, except that it was _away_ , and he didn’t quite dare to ask the man who’d grabbed him by the wrist and walked so swiftly that Jack had to half jog or risk being dragged.

The _where_ turned out to be the train station, which was new and exciting enough that Jack forgot about being scared, but stared with wide eyes at the great locomotives, and the bustle of the crowds, and everything.

On the train, the man shoved Jack’s bag over their heads and sat Jack in his seat by the window while he took the aisle seat and, all in all, didn’t seem nearly so mean as Jack had feared.  Jack still didn’t dare to speak to him, and the man didn’t seem to care to speak to a child, so they sat in silence and Jack had the enjoyment of looking out the window and getting to _see_ as they started off down the track.  It was so interesting and enjoyable, in fact, that it didn’t quite occur to him that he was being taken very far away from everything he knew.

Then the man took out sandwiches from his briefcase, and he gave one to Jack.

“And what do you say?” the man asked, when Jack took his sandwich with a surprised sort of look.  In fact, Jack rather thought the man the sort to eat in front of him and not offer a crumb, and finding otherwise had been surprising enough for him to forget his manners.

And then he was prompted and Jack opened his mouth and _couldn’t find the right word_.

He knew the man wanted to be thanked, and he knew the word.  He knew three words, in fact, but only one would do, and the other words crowded out the right one and, without quite meaning to, he sort of hunched down and covered his ear with his hand.  He couldn’t have said himself why he did it; all he knew was that he _had_ to speak and all the words that crowded in his head were _wrong_ and the right words slid away where he couldn’t reach it.

“Don’t you cover your ears when I speak to you!” the man said, growing angry, and he grabbed Jack’s wrist and wrenched his hand back down.  “Well, if you can’t mind your manners like a good little boy then you don’t get my good sandwich.”  And he snatched the food back.

Then he sort of gave Jack a look, and perhaps he was waiting for Jack to say something like ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you for the nice sandwich’, and perhaps he intended to give it back then.  He waited in vain, though, because Jack looked down at his lap instead of at the man with his sandwich, and then Jack looked out the window and eventually the man gave up on him and ate his own sandwich and put the second one away.

Jack didn’t miss it much, because he felt so unsettled that his stomach hurt and he wasn’t hungry at all.  After a bit, watching the countryside slide by soothed him, and the rest of the trip was quiet, and being on a train at all was almost enough to make up for the company.

Then they arrived at a small wooden platform that was nothing at all like the station back in London, and they were the only ones getting off.  Jack had no idea where they were, except that there were trees and grass all around and a sort of dirt trail and no buildings.  Jack had never been in a place so devoid of buildings; even parks had edges where you could see walls and roofs and the like.

It was really only in this moment that Jack came to understand what the train ride meant, and it was in a sort of daze that he was taken even further into the country (this time by car, and that should have been exciting except Jack was all excited out by that point).  They went through a sort of town, and those were buildings, but it was all spread out and strange and it ended quite quickly and they went past fields, and there were cows, and then they came to quite a large house all made of stone and covered in ivy.

“Here we are,” said the man, the first words he’d said towards Jack since the sandwich incident.  “The Cottage.”  And had Jack known a bit more about the part of the world that wasn’t London, he’d have been confused because the building was not at all like a cottage.

And the man told the young person driving the car to wait for him, and he took Jack by the wrist again and marched him up to the door much quicker than Jack would have liked to go on his own, for he was curious in spite of his upset stomach and he wanted to see.  The man didn’t care to see anything though, but walked right up to the door, and knocked.

And almost before Jack could get a feel for this strange house, he was standing before large woman who smiled at the man, then at Jack, as she shook their hands.

“I trust you had a pleasant journey,” she said, to the man rather than to Jack.  “It’s so kind of you to bring the boy all the way from London.”

“It is my duty,” the man said, not sounding at all pleased at the compliment, and the woman stopped smiling quite so aggressively.

“Of course,” she said, and then, “And I see you have his paperwork all ready.  Yes, that seems to be in order.  Will you be staying for supper…or perhaps for the night?”  And Jack couldn’t say why, because he words were all the right sort of words, but he didn’t think she really wanted the man to stay.

“I return to London in two hours,” the man answered.  The woman looked pleased to hear that, but said, “That’s too bad.  We live simply here, but the countryside does have its charms.  And it’s so healthful and wholesome for the poor children.”

“The paperwork is in order,” said the man, “And I have seen to the child’s arrival, so I will take my leave.  Good day, Madame.”

And the man left and Jack was alone with the woman, who in his head he now called ‘Madame’.

“And that’s _him_ gone,” she muttered, and then she picked up the papers the man had left, glanced towards Jack, and said, “Let’s see what we’ve got.  Male, well that can’t be helped, London born, worse and worse, you’ll be a little thieving troublemaker, all the city boys are.  Name of Jack…oh that is too bad.  Another foreign mongrel, I see, with one of those ridiculous names no sensible Englishman can pronounce.  I won’t be having it; you’ll be Jack Sharp while I have you, and be proud to answer to it.  At least they had the sense to give you a proper first name.  Age?  No good, we’ve no beds to spare there.  I’ll stick you with the sixes; you look small enough.”

All of this was said to herself more than to Jack, and it was not particularly pleasant to be talked about like that.  Jack didn’t answer back though, not even with a glare.  He was still too unsettled and a bit confused.  No one had told him where he was going, so he wasn’t entirely sure he’d actually arrived, and he didn’t understand any of the last bit of what she said (except, that it was an insult).

“And what do we have here?” Madame said, and she snatched his small bundle that he’d so carefully carried all that way and she poured everything out onto her desk.  The clothes (which were mostly what was in the bundle) she tossed to the floor, saying “No good; we’ve got a uniform.”  The small doll that even Jack hadn’t known was there, but recognized as having belonged to Sofia, she sneered at.  “Into dolls are we?” she asked. “We’ll cure you of _that_.”  And that was tossed aside as well.  The food Signora Bianchi had carefully packed away for him, she sniffed suspiciously, declared some sort of foreign poison, and dumped into a waste bin.  Finally, there was nothing left.  She looked disappointed.

“No jewelry from your late mother?” she asked, and her lips sort of smiled but her eyes didn’t.  “No father’s pocket watch?  No clever mechanical toys?  No books?  Of course, no books, you don’t even know what schooling is.” 

Seeing her _smile_ while she said such things made Jack feel funny, like something was very wrong and he wanted to be as far from the woman as possible.  He never thought he’d miss that mean man, but now he wished with all his heart that he’d come back and take him away.  And he didn’t dare to explain that she was wrong about the schooling.  He had been…before.  When he lived with his mama.  Then he lived with signora Bianchi and she never sent him to school and everything had been so new that he had never even questioned why he no longer went until the man had shown up to ask.

She didn’t give him his bag back.  She rang a bell on her desk instead, and teenager came in at once.

“This is Jack Sharp,” said Madame.  “Take him to the sixes and get him settled.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said the boy, and then he turned around and walked back out the door.

“Well?  Go on,” said Madame to Jack, and it was only then that Jack realized he was meant to follow.  He did so, hearing her mutter, ‘little mongrel,’ to herself as he went.  And so began a new chapter in Jack’s life at the Cottage.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack half ran after the other boy, who was putting his longer legs to great use and was almost around the corner.  This mode of walking continued until they’d walked up a narrow staircase to the first floor, and then all at once the boy stopped walking and turned to look Jack up and down.

“Hello, Jack Sharp,” said the boy.  “Welcome to the Cottage.”  And he held out his hand for Jack to shake.  Jack did so, saying nothing, this time not so much out of a loss of words as confusion.  Everyone in this place seemed to change personas like changing hats; Madame smiled like she was glad to see him, then took his things and spoke over him in a cruel and confusing way.  Now this older boy first ignored him, then turned around and acted like the friendliest sort of greeter imaginable!

“You can call me, Donald; everyone does.  It’s MacDonald, actually, and I’ll answer to either, but don’t let the Witch catch you if you try MacDonald.”  Then, catching Jack’s wide-eyed look, he added, “And don’t call her the Witch unless your certain of at least an entire floor between you and she.  She’s ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Madame’ to her face.  Her name is Miss Smith, really.  At least…I’ve heard it’s really something like Schmidt, but you didn’t hear that from _me_.  She’s mostly harmless; she’s too lazy to go after us herself you know, but if you get her angry enough she’ll lock you in the basement.  The thing to know about our lovely director is, she’s fuller of hate than a demon from Hell, and she steals our benefits, we all know it, but she hates us enough we hardly see her.  Is Jack Sharp really your name?”

Jack shook his head, still feeling a bit in a daze, especially after the ‘demon from Hell’ which had shocked him.  If any of the mothers in his little neighborhood in London had heard someone say that, boy or man, their own child or no, the one doing the saying would have gotten a scolding hot enough to scorch his ear, and, depending on the matron, possibly something worse than a scolding.

The self-named Donald looked Jack up and down, not exactly like Madame had, but in the same assessing sort of way.

“Can you speak?” Donald asked.  “We once got a deaf one and it took us a month to figure it out.  The witch just said she was stupid, and it wasn’t in her paperwork so she refused to believe it.”

This time Jack nodded his head.  Donald continued to look at him for a moment, then shrugged.

“This way then, and I’ll get you settled.  The dormitories are divided by age, and then again by boys and girls, and they’re all overfull.  All us boys are in this wing here.  The Witch gets more money per child, so she takes in as many as they’ll send her and she tells them we’ve all the room in the world.  She probably asked money for more beds too, but _we’ll_ never see them.”

And he led him to a door with the number six painted and opened the door.  It was not, as one might supposed, inbetween five and seven.  They passed a door marked ten, and the one across said three.  Donald didn’t show those rooms though, but led him straight into six.  There were ten beds in the room, narrow ones with thin mattresses, though the room was large enough for twice as many.  The Bianchis weren’t rich and their beds weren’t much better but these looked…colder somehow.  Perhaps it was the way each one was an island unto itself in the large room.  Perhaps it was the way each only had one under sheet and one thin blanket.  The room was almost entirely bare except for the beds.  Each bed had a small sort of chest at its foot with two drawers, and that was the only furniture.  There were no toys left on the floor, no bookcases, no shoes strewn about.  The only clothing at all were neat white bundles on each bed.  Closer inspection showed them to be nightshirts.  Most beds had two sets on them.  Some only had one.

“You’ll need the uniform, I suppose,” said Donald as he lead Jack towards one of the few beds with only one nightshirt.  “But this can be your bed.  Everyone is doubled up, you see.  It’s not too bad for you little ones, I suppose, but it does get hard on us older ones.  I’m almost aged out myself, and I have some privileges, but some of my mates have taken to sleeping on the floor just to have their own space.”

Jack sat down on the bed, finding it just as thin and hard as it looked.

“And don’t think you can’t switch about, if you make friends with someone or just have a better fit; the Witch cares that you stay the night in your room but she doesn’t care which bed.  Now, it’s the custom when a new one comes in to send him to the nurse first thing.  The Witch doesn’t care about us but she doesn’t want us all dying on her so she makes sure the basics are kept up.  After, assuming you don’t have lice or some horrid disease, I’m supposed to give you a sound whipping to remind you to be good.”

Then Donald clapped Jack on the shoulder, still smiling in the same friendly sort of manner, while Jack continued to stare up at him with wide eyes.  “Don’t worry; she never checks that it was done.  We just _tell_ her it was, and if you can remember to moan a bit around her I’d be obliged.  Now…let’s get you to the nurse and I’ll go find you a uniform while she’s busy with you.”

And Donald started off again, this time at a much more reasonable stride that didn’t have Jack running to catch up.  In fact, he paused at the door to make sure Jack was following.

“I suppose this is all a bit much,” said Donald as they strolled along, past mismatched numbers that ran everything from two to sixteen.  “Most new ones have a million questions.  You quiet ones always worry me.  I won’t ask why you’re here, it won’t be for your health and anyway, that’s your business...but it will be alright.  Honest.  It’s not easy here, but we get everything we need and we take care of each other.  You’ll see.  Now, here we are; the nurse.”

Donald had led Jack down some stairs and into another wing.  This door he knocked on first, then pushed open when no one answered.  It opened on a large room full of curtains.  The ones pushed back showed beds, much the same as the one Jack had just left except without the nightshirt, and the sheets looked whiter.  Donald went past all this to another door at the far end, then knocked again.

“Yes,” said a woman’s voice from the other side, and Donald opened this door too.  It opened on a sort of office where a woman in a blue dress was sitting and reading a magazine.  She set the magazine aside to look at them.

“It isn’t another stomach complaint, is it?  I’ve _told_ Cook he has to properly boil the chicken.”

“Not this time,” answered Donald.  “This is a new one.  Madame wants a full report on him, I’d guess.”

“Never told me about a new one,” she grumbled.  “Did she at least send his papers with you?”  And she looked Jack up and down.  Jack, it must be confessed, was half hiding behind Donald.  He didn’t have much experience with nurses or doctors.  In fact, the last doctor he’d seen had come to see to his mama.

“Just told me to settle him with the sixes,” Donald answered with an apologetic shrug.  “Called him Jack Sharp.  That’s all I know.”

“I’ve _told_ her I need their records.  Has he even had his smallpox vaccine?  And I suppose _he_ won’t know anything.  Well boy?  Are you vaccinated?  Are you diseased?”

This last, said to Jack, was confusing and alarming enough that he didn’t know how to answer, even if his words didn’t still feel a bit trapped inside him.  The nurse stared hard at him for a moment, before speaking to Donald again.

“He can speak, can’t he?  You said he was six?  He’s not another deaf one, is he?”

“He’s just a quiet one,” Donald answered, just the slightest bit defensively, as he put his hand on Jack’s shoulder.  This was made slightly harder as Jack was still a bit behind him, and Donald had to move himself to shift Jack in front.

“One of _those_ ,” said the nurse, and not very happily.  “Makes my work harder.  Well, be a good boy, Sean, and get those records.  And better get his uniform, while you’re at it.”

Donald gave Jack’s shoulder a comforting squeeze and then he took off, leaving Jack alone with the nurse.  She wasn’t looking at him anymore, but going into a cabinet at her back, rummaging about for some papers.

“Here we go, new assessment.  Basics first, I suppose.  Your name is Jack Sharp, and you’re six years old?”

Jack shook his head.  The nurse stared hard at him.

“Well then, first things first.  Name?”

“Jack,” Jack answered, and it startled even him to hear his own voice after all those hours of silence.

“So he _can_ speak,” said the nurse.  And she wrote down ‘Jack Sharp’ on the paper in front of her, and before Jack could try to explain about the ‘Sharp’, she said “Age?”

Jack didn’t answer this time, still caught on his name.  The nurse made an annoyed sort of huff, then said, “Simpler then.  Are you six, Jack?”

“No,” Jack managed to answer, out loud this time.  “I think I’m seven.”

“You _think_ you’re seven,” said the nurse, not impressed with this answer.  “I don’t suppose you know what year you were born?”

Jack stared at her, this time because he didn’t know the answer.

“I’ll just leave it until I get the paperwork down,” she decided.  “Weight and height next.  Then the fun bit and I’ll see if you’ve any passengers about you.”  She didn’t sound like she thought it would be fun, though.  She led Jack out of her office through yet another door and into a funny sort of room that was part office and part bedroom.  It had a scale and a sort of stick that marked heights, which is what Jack had to do first, after taking off his shoes.

“Average height, on the lower end,” she muttered to herself, “assuming you _are_ seven.  What is Madame thinking; she’s always going on about filing proper paperwork then sends every new one down here without a single page of it.  Slightly underweight.  Nothing serious.  Take off your shirt, Jack, I need to check your back, and then I’ll have a listen to your heart and lungs.”

Jack did as directed, though it was slightly chilly in the room.  He wasn’t particularly modest, but he’d never had a stranger tell him to take off his shirt before and it was weird.  Everything so far had been a bit strange, though, and it seemed better to do as he was directed.  At any rate, the nurse was kind enough to tell him what she was doing, and she did exactly as she said.  She made him bend over and she felt his spine, and then she got out a funny sort of tool and listened to his heart and lungs.

Then she had a look in his eyes and ears and she checked his temperature.  Finally, she made him sit very still while she ran a comb through his hair.

“A bit of a tangle,” she muttered.  “But surprisingly free of passengers.  Whoever had you before knew something about cleanliness.  I think we can skip the shave.  Well, that’s us done, at least until I have your records.”

They came out to find Donald already waiting, a bundle of clothes and a folder in hand.  The nurse grabbed the folder, waving for Jack to take the clothes.

“Go back through and change in there,” she told him.  “I’ll finish with this.”  So Jack went back into the exam room and looked to see what uniform he’d been given.  There was a complete set, including underwear and white shirt, blue shorts with suspenders, and a blue jacket.  The shirt was a bit large on Jack, and the shorts too loose, and the jacket came up short at the wrists.  In fact, Jack saw himself in the room’s mirror and, for perhaps the first time since leaving the Bianchi household, laughed out loud.

There were no shoes or socks, so Jack put on his own pair.  Then, a bit reluctantly, he opened the door to show himself dressed.

“I see you managed alright,” said Donald.  “Some of the young ones don’t know how to work the buttons.”

“And if anyone should ask you again,” said the nurse, “You _have_ had your smallpox vaccine as a baby.  And you are seven for another three months or so, at which point you will be eight.  That woman!  Jack Sharp, a sixer, indeed!  I’d like to Sharp her, so help me!”  And still muttering to herself, she shooed them out the door, only stopping them a moment to say, “Just leave those old clothes on the chair there, Jack.  You won’t need them, and by the time you leave here you’ll have outgrown them anyway.”

So Jack followed Donald back out into the hall, feeling very silly in his new clothes.  Luckily, Jack had never minded feeling silly; in fact it was rather nice to have something to smile about again.

“I didn’t think you had a smile,” Donald remarked as they went along.  “I’ve never seen a visit to the nurse agree with someone so.  She didn’t slip you some odd medicine, did she?”

“No,” answered Jack, who was surprised to discover he seemed to have found his tongue at last.  “She looked me all over and said I didn’t need a shave and now I’ve these funny clothes.  They don’t look like yours.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” said Donald, still looking a bit mystified at the change that had come over Jack.  “That’s what the younger boys wear.”

“It isn’t the best fit,” Jack said, trying to look at himself and almost tripping.  He tugged at the sleeves to his jacket and failed to pull them down further.

“If this one doesn’t fit, well, perhaps the next will be better.  The uniform isn’t really yours, see, they’re all the same except for size so on laundry day the old is taken and a new is given and you’re lucky if it’s your size exactly.  I did try to size you up, but perhaps I didn’t guess exactly right.”

“This one is fine,” said Jack.  “I don’t mind it.  Do I keep my shoes, then?  There weren’t any that you gave me.”

“That’s Madame again,” said Donald in a low voice, slightly more cautious due to being on the same floor as her, though her office was far off yet.  “We’re all meant to have new shoes every six months, as needed…but we don’t get them until our shoes won’t go on in the slightest or fall apart utterly.  And by ‘new’ I mean you get a pair someone else has outgrown.  She lets us keep the shoes we come in because it saves her some.  I think she’d let us keep the clothes too…but she likes the look of us all in uniform.  It’s better if the inspector arrives, too.  Oh, she has all sorts of tricks for him.  She’ll lead him a merry romp about the school, having us trade about, so he never notices we double up on the beds and the like.  And we have the best meals on those days, I can tell you.”

“She sounds horrible,” said Jack with a frown.  “If she hates us so, why does she look after us at all?”

“The money, I suppose,” Donald said.  “She’s always begging extra money from the mayor, or from charities, saying we need new shoes and good food and medicines and books and beds and, oh, a hundred other things.  And then she pockets all the money herself and keeps us on as little as she can manage without actually killing us off.  She doesn’t dare let us start dying on her, see, and she locks us up wherever she can so we can’t run off either.  If we started dying, there’d be an investigation for sure.  And speaking of short rations, it’s off to tea with us now.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Jack, and Donald looked at him in amazement.

“What?” he asked.

“Aren’t you supposed to whip me to remind me to be good?”

“Well aren’t you over your silent spell,” Donald said with a bit of a laugh.  “I suppose I should.  You know, some of the little ones ask for just one lick or two…they’re afraid they’ll forget to moan otherwise.  Shall I?”

“I can moan quite well on my own, I think,” answered Jack.

“Come on, then.  We all dine together in a big hall off the kitchen; it’s in the other wing.  You’ll get to meet the other sixers.  And…and don’t worry much if you _are_ seven…I think at least one of your new roommates is actually eight, so you won’t be alone there.”

Then, just before they entered what must be the eating hall he’d talked about because Jack could hear the low rumble of noise that generally came from lots of children brought together into one room, Donald paused again.  He looked at Jack like he wanted to say something, but for a moment, he didn’t seem to know what.

“Just…I know it’s a sore spot for boys but…if anyone asks, say you’re six,” he said at last.  “Only, it’s better that way.  If we’re lucky, Madame will just send you out for a whipping, a whipping like the one I just gave you.  But if you get her mad…you just don’t want to, is all.”

And he looked so anxious about it, that Jack, who was already growing a bit nervous at the prospect of meeting his fellow roommates, whatever their ages, felt the remains of his smile slide off his face, and he nodded solemnly in return.

Then Donald pushed through the doors and Jack followed after.

Up to then, Jack had been told half a dozen times that the Cottage was overcrowded; but up to then he hadn’t seen a single other child aside from Donald, who barely counted being, in Jack’s eyes, the same thing as an adult.

Donald had not been joking about the overcrowding.  There were ten long tables and one short one on a sort of dais.  Five of the tables seated girls and five seated boys.  They had benches for this purpose, which was convenient, as everyone had to squeeze together so tightly to fit that chairs would never have done.  Even as it was, some of the children were half in each other’s laps, and the children on the ends had to sort of push with their feet against the table legs to stop from being pushed right off the bench.

“And this is just the five and ups,” Donald said cheerfully.  “Tables go by twos on either side; Here are the five and sixes, opposite the seven and eights.  I’m up at the dais myself, a privilege they tell me, as I get to eat with Madame…when she deigns to eat with us and doesn’t send for her food.  Here, Roger, Jimmy, budge up, we’ve a new one.”

And without much more warning for any of them, Donald picked Jack up and set him down on the bench between the two boys he’d just named.  There wasn’t really room in the slightest, and Jack was more on the boys’ laps than the bench, and he had to grab the table before he lost his balance as his feet didn’t seem to touch the floor.

“Do be gentle with the new lamb,” Donald said cheerfully.  “See you later, Jack.”  And he left Jack alone with his new roommates.  It was hard to get much of an impression of them when they sat all in a row, and him still half on top to two closest to him.

“Budge over, before he smothers me,” said the boy Donald had called Roger, but not towards Jack.  He was shoving at the boy on his other side.

“Budge yourself, there’s nowhere to budge,” the boy answered, shoving back, and causing a sort of chain reaction that almost had the boy at the end of the row on the floor.

“Least he’s a small one,” said a boy across the table.  “We once had a young whale sat on us, and if he was younger than nine I’ll eat my hat.”

“You don’t have a hat,” Roger answered, clearly not appreciating Jack’s small size in the least.

“Because I ate it,” the boy across answered promptly, gaining a small laugh from the others.

Then a bell rang and, with surprising suddenness, all talking and shoving ceased, though in the ensuing silence Jack did hear the boy on his other side whisper, “Oh no, _she’s_ decided to come down.”

Then everyone was scrambling to stand up, and Jack almost fell again when he was half pushed from two laps, except one of the boys was kind enough to grab his arm to help steady him.

“We always stand for prayer,” Roger whispered.  “’Specially if _she’s_ here.”  And then he clearly didn’t dare say another word but clamped his lips together and stood as straight as he could.  Jack tried to copy him.  He couldn’t help turning his head though, to see Madame in the doorway.  She had her odd smile on her face as she looked from table to table.  Her eyes settled briefly on Jack, and he could hardly breathe, but then they moved on and she started to walk across the hall for the dais.

The dais was behind Jack, and she walked right past him on the way.  And just as she was about to pass, Jack felt a sudden sharp kick to his shin.

“Oh!” he cried, as much from surprise as pain.  It wasn’t very loud, but in the silence of the room, and with Madame just behind him, Jack felt it was the loudest sound he’d ever made, and was certain any moment he was going to be dragged away to be locked in the basement, or whipped, or something horrible.

He heard Madame pause behind him.

“Feeling the pain of Donald’s fine welcome, are we?” asked her voice, and it didn’t sound angry.  In fact, Jack rather thought she might be amused.  “I hope you take the lesson to heart and remember to be a good boy.”  And she went on to the dais.

Then everyone bowed their heads and recited a prayer together, Jack listening rather than speaking while trembling a bit where he stood.  He could feel the weight of her stare behind him, and realized that, for the entire meal, he’d have to have her at his back.

Despite having had nothing since breakfast time, Jack found he wasn’t very hungry.  It wasn’t just Madame at his back, either.  One of his new roommates had just kicked him.  On purpose.  And they waited until _she_ was behind him to do it.  He thought it was Jimmy, at least it was his side, but they were so tight together it could have been Roger.

What sort of horrible place had he been brought to?

That the meal turned out to be boiled chicken and cabbage (and more cabbage than chicken) did not help his hunger in the slightest.

“Eat,” whispered Roger in a voice so light Jack almost could have imagined it.  “Even if you’re ailing.  Even if you hate it.  No matter what, you eat.”

“Or give it to one of us,” Jimmy said, his voice soft and mostly covered by the loud clinking of spoons around them (for spoons were all they were given to eat with).  “So long as it’s gone when they check.”

Feeling a bit lost and a bit alone and a bit faint, Jack took up a bit of cabbage and swallowed it down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people may have noticed by now, I've never actually given Jack a last name (except, of course, that it clearly isn't 'Sharp'). This is partly because movie Jack doesn't seem to have a last name (a wiki said his full name was Jackson Hunter Shapiro at one point, but wikis aren't always the most accurate and the last time I double checked, I couldn't find the mention again). So...all the times he 'accidentally' gets called Banks were at least in part from my avoidance of naming his last name. (and in part because, well, funny/cute). I probably should decide on one soon...if only so he can rebel against Sharp with his real name...except I don't know it and I'd hate to make one up only to learn the real name later. At the very least, I'd like to finish reading the books just to be sure he isn't there (and THAT was a surprise, finding out where they got the name William Weatherall Wilkins. I mean, who goes, oh, the FIRST PERSON TO FLY WITH THE BALLOONS and decides he's a villain? except my book has the middle name as 'wetherill' so perhaps not exactly the same person?) I never read more than the first book as a child; didn't even know there were more, but I'm making up for it now, so if there is a Jack I suppose I'll find him. Though if someone who's read the books through does know that Jack is there and/or knows his last name, I'd love for you to share it.


	3. Chapter 3

After the meal the children stood together and, table by table, brought their dishes to the kitchen, and then filed out together to some new destination.  Jack was in line behind Roger and with Jimmy at his back, and neither spoke to him.  In fact, the only noise was of many shoes against the floor.  Jack had never in his life been so surrounded by boys his own age and not heard a single hum of conversation, a single stifled giggle, a single attempt at shoving or whispering or anything of the kind.

He didn’t know if they were always so well behaved or if it was because they were still trying to avoid the attention of the witch.  She hadn’t followed them out, though.  She was still dining on a large piece of cake as Jack had walked passed her.  He hadn’t dared to look of course, but he could smell the rich sugary smell as he went by.  Donald was still at her table too, though he didn’t seem to have anything more to eat.  Jack hadn’t dared to look at him either.

His fellow age mates stayed in line as they filed out the door, and then the front of the line split away as the five year olds went somewhere else and his own group marched towards a door, and then outside in the cool evening air and into a vegetable garden.

As if a signal had been given, though Jack noticed none, all the boys suddenly relaxed and a sort of noise erupted as they all let out their pent up fidgets and words in one go.

“Thank goodness that’s over,” Roger said, lifting his arms high into the air.  “I hate it when _she_ decides to join us.”

Jimmy, for some reason, did the opposite; dropping down to sit on his heels while hugging his knees, though he sort of hummed in agreement.  Other boys said other things too, but Jack didn’t have enough ears to follow all their conversations, except the majority just seemed relieved.  Then Roger turned towards Jack.

“It won’t always be that horrible, I promise,” he said.  “Now we have chores.  Fives take care of the chickens, and us sixes are in the small vegetable garden, and the sevens are in the big garden, and eights look after the cows and the nines are in the kitchen and tens are odd jobs and after that…well, I suppose it depends on what you’re good at.  Anyway, we have it easy; the girls all have indoor cleaning or needlework.”

“Easy, except for the rain,” muttered Jimmy, still crouched down on his heels.  “Or cold.  Or heat.  Girls get to stay indoors.”  Roger took no notice of him but went on talking.

“And if you stay long enough to be fourteen, you start to get to be in charge, and that’s the best job of all.”

“Says you,” said a voice that was much deeper than any of Jack’s new companions, and Jack startled to discover another teenager had joined them.  “Like herding cats, keeping you lot in check.  So, you’re the new boy, then?  Call me Mr. Henderson.  Or sir.  Do your work and we’ll get along.  Now, why are you lot just sitting around?  You know your jobs, do them!  Lewis, show Sharp what to do.”

The teenager was shorter than Donald, and looked rather less friendly, but Jack had already learned not to trust first appearances.  Mr. Henderson hadn’t done anything untoward to Jack yet, anyway, or tried to belittle him, so Jack cautiously hoped he’d turn out to be all right.  Determined to not make a bad first impression himself, Jack looked around for ‘Lewis’ who was to show him what to do, and tried not to think too hard on the ‘Sharp’ and how it made him feel a bit like when signora Bianchi scolded his mama for teaching him bad Italian, only worse.

“He means me,” Roger said, holding out a hand.  “Roger Lewis.”

“Jack…” Jack answered, taking Roger’s hand, but then came the moment he was supposed to say ‘Sharp’ and that was a lie and there was a rather long moment of silence when Jack knew he was supposed to say something and didn’t.  In the end Roger turned, still holding Jack’s hand, and tugged him along to a small shed where other boys were already fetching out shovels and hoes and watering cans.

“Jack Lamb, I should think,” said Jimmy, who had gone with them, “Isn’t that what Donald called him?”

Jack wasn’t sure if Jimmy said that to be mean or if he said it to tease or if he really thought Jack’s name was ‘Lamb’, but Roger laughed and Jack didn’t know what to do with his face and looked at the ground.  Was Jimmy the one who had kicked him?  Or was it Roger. Roger seemed nicer, more friendly at least, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be cruel too.

They worked in the garden until the sun was almost completely gone, and then they washed off the dirt from their hands and faces from a cold bucket of water.  Mr. Henderson made sure they did a thorough job too.

“Just look at you,” he said with disgust to one of the smaller boys who Jack didn’t know the name of yet.  “Dirt behind your ears, dirt in your hair!”  And the poor little fellow had his whole head dunked in the water courtesy of Mr. Henderson.  He didn’t hold him down, but he did make him scrub, and dunked him twice more before he was satisfied.  The poor boy’s teeth were chattering by the end and the small towel meant to dry him off was hardly adequate.

“Here,” said Jack, offering his own small towel, though it was already rather damp and probably didn’t help much.  Jack had only had to scrub his hands, but Mr. Henderson had found his nails to be too dirty and Jack’s fingers were numb by the time he was satisfied, and the small towel was damp through as he tried to rub warmth back into them.  He didn’t want to imagine what dunking his whole head would have been like.

“It was your own fault,” Jimmy told the boy solemnly, even as he, too, offered his used towel to help.  “If you didn’t fling the dirt around so, you wouldn’t be such a mess after.”

Roger didn’t offer his towel, but he’d had to scrub his hands up to his elbows, and his face, and his towel would have done even less good than Jack’s after that.

Everyone clean, the water was dumped over the garden and they lined up again.  Jack rather hoped it was bedtime, as early as it was, because he felt exhausted down to his soul.  The morning in London felt a lifetime ago.

Instead, they were lead into a chapel where they once again had to squish together so tightly Jack could feel the wet boy shivering five bodies away, and then had to stand for half an hour of prayer.

Madame wasn’t there.  In fact, no adult was.  At least, the teenagers still looked rather like adults to Jack, but even so he knew it was a bit odd to not have anyone older to look after them.  Donald was one of the boys who led the prayers, and he gave Jack a friendly smile that Jack was too exhausted to really return but tried to anyway.

After prayer time, they filed out just as they had after meal time.  The girls went in one direction and the boys in another.  At last, Jack found himself returning to the room with the beds that Donald had shown him.  He knew it was only a few hours ago, but it felt like it had happened the day before.

Jack stood between Roger and Jimmy and followed where Roger walked, once again in unnatural silence.  It wasn’t until they were alone in their dorm and the door was closed that some semblance of life returned to the children.

To Jack’s alarm, he suddenly had the full attention of sixteen other boys.  Not their full attention; two were having a mock battle and several were bouncing on their beds, and most were talking to each other, but they’d formed a definite ring around him, herding him towards the middle of the room.

“This is Jack,” said Roger to his companions, throwing an arm over Jack’s shoulder as though to say ‘this is my friend’.  Jack wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Not another one,” mumbled a voice from the crowd of boys, and Jack tried not to hunch up in on himself since there wasn’t any place to hide, and anyway, he liked making new friends.  He just…didn’t like, perhaps, making so many new friends at once when he felt half asleep and like he still wasn’t entirely sure where he was or where he was going to be next.

“Jack what?” other voices asked.  “ _Where is he from?” “Does he like snakes?” “What, no one likes snakes!” “I like snakes” “Kind of small isn’t he?  He’s not another fiver stuck with us?” “Can’t he talk?” “Did the witch steal his voice?” “She can’t do that!” “I heard she did to this girl, and then turned her into a rabbit.” “A rabbit?”  “Donald called him a lamb.” “Donald calls all us sixers lambs_.”

“Hello, Jack,” said the small boy whose hair was still damp, and he was the first one to speak directly to Jack instead of at him or about him.  “My name’s Octavius.”

“A long one for such a little one,” said Roger.  “We call him Davy.  Or Dusty, when we’ve been gardening.”

“Nice to meet you, Octavius,” Jack said, and somehow the words came easier when he was just answering someone else’s introduction.  “Do you _like_ being called Davy?”

“I don’t mind.  Better than Dusty anyway.  Or Tavy…that just sounded silly.  And Octavius sound a bit silly too…really.”

‘Tavy Baby’ Jack distinctly heard someone in the crowd of boys whisper, followed by giggles, and he frowned.  For the first time in his long, confusing trip that had gotten him here, Jack felt a spark of something that wasn’t confusion or sadness or curiosity or really anything to do with himself.  It wasn’t _right_ , making a little boy feel bad over his name.

“We don’t say it to be mean,” Roger was quick to say, clearly noting Jack’s frown.  “We mostly go by short names, here.  Like…like we all have secret names only us boys know.  You could be Lamb, if you like.”

“And what do they call you?” Jack asked.  Having secret names actually rather sounded like fun…but he was quite certain he did not want to have his secret name be ‘Lamb’.

“We call him Roger,” said Jimmy.  “And we’ll call you ‘Jack’.  And I’m Jimmy.  And anyone calls Davy something for a joke will be sleeping under their bed tonight.”  That last was said to the room at large, but particularly towards Roger.

“I’m not afraid of you!” Roger shouted at Jimmy.  “We’re just teasing.”

“Teasing is only fun when everyone is laughing,” said Jack, and then Roger was glaring at _him_ , like maybe they weren’t friends after all.  Jack didn’t shrink away this time, though.  It was nice having friends, but it wasn’t nice when his friends were being mean.  Roger didn’t say anything more to Jack though, but turned his glare back on Jimmy.

“And you aren’t so great, Jim Johnson!” Roger said.  “You kicked Jack; I know it was you, and right when the witch walked by.  You wanted to get us all locked in the basement!”

And Jack looked at Jimmy to see what he had to say to that.  In fact, all the boys were looking back and forth between them, some looking worried, some eager.

“Did you kick Jack?” Octavius asked Jimmy, sounding betrayed and horrified.

“Of course I did,” said Jimmy, which wasn’t what Jack had expected.  Even Roger looked surprised, like he didn’t think Jimmy would admit to it.  Jack thought perhaps he should feel angry.  He didn’t, though.  He just felt small and lost and confused and sad.

“Why?” was all Jack said in the end.  A silence fell over the boys as they waited to hear Jimmy’s answer.

“Because you weren’t groaning,” answered Jimmy.  “She likes it when we groan after a whipping.  And if you don’t groan, maybe she’d check there _was_ a whipping…and then you’d be in trouble and Donald’d be in trouble and we’d _all_ be in trouble.  So I kicked you to remind you to groan.”

“Oh, is that why?” Jack asked, greatly relieved.  “I thought maybe you hated me.”

And then to his utter horror and surprise, somehow the relief in just knowing _why_ caused him to burst into tears.

And the other boys gathered around him, and tried to wipe away his tears and hugged him and patted his head and said things like ‘there, there’ and ‘it’ll be all right’ and ‘be a man’ and even though Jack didn’t even know most of their names he started to feel he was among friends and that just seemed to make him cry harder, which was horrible, and he tried to say ‘sorry’ only it came out as ‘lo siento’ but no one seemed to notice.

“Here,” said Jimmy after a bit, “We’d better get ready for lights out or we’ll all get it.  Everyone grab your bed mate.  Davy, you better be with Jack.”

“But…I wanted Jack,” Roger said, who was currently hugging Jack and clearly had decided to still be friends after all.  “Who put you in charge anyway?”

“I’m oldest,” answered Jimmy.  “And anyway, you can be one of the free groups tonight.  There’s only three now we have one more.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Roger, clearly appeased by this.  “No one to kick me or steal the blanket!”

“It’s all right, Jack,” said Octavius, while Jack tried in vain to stop his tears.  “We all cry the first night.  And a lot of other nights.  Here’s your night shirt.  Your day clothes go on the stand here.  We share this bed and…it fits best if we have our heads at opposite ends but…it’s warmest if you curl up together, and I’m small and you’re bigger but not as big as Jimmy or Roger and I think we’ll fit.”

And somehow Jack came to be dressed in the night shirt, and was curled up under a blanket huddled next to Octavius and he still didn’t know where he was or who most of his companions were or…or anything, but he did feel warmer and even before someone came to turn off their lights and lock them in for the night he’d already slipped into a deep and exhausted sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this is rather short, but it seemed a good stopping point and, well, better to share what I have then make you wait weeks in-between just to get a good length to the chapter, right?
> 
> Incidentally, making up a million names for all the different characters is hard. And it's now after midnight...oops.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real difficulty with this story, is that I keep wanting to get to the 'good' bit...but I feel the need to establish the normal routine and that does go on and on (and I haven't quite finished his first full day yet!) and so here we are, chapter 4 and no Mary in sight. Well...perhaps hints.
> 
> Incidentally, it took me until the third re-watching of the movie to realize not only does Jack mention he was apprenticed to Bert...he specifically says he met Mary Poppins when he was the children's age while apprenticed to a sweep...I mean, I always knew this was an AU, but I like to at least try to not contradict actual information from the movie. Oh well. We'll see if I can twist this to make it fit or just leave it as an alternate meeting.

Jack awoke confused as he was dragged harshly from sleep by a loud voice, followed by his blanket being torn away.

It took him almost a full minute to understand where he was, and that the small body he was curled up next to wasn’t little Sofia, and why he could hear boys grumbling their way into wakefulness and why someone who wasn’t Giorgio was calling for him to rise and dress and why his head felt a bit achy, like it always did when he fell asleep crying.

He’d later learn that the boys were always roused at roughly six in the morning.  As lights out was at eight in the evening, this was by no means unreasonable.

“Not that the witch cares that we get our beauty sleep,” Jack heard more than one boy grumble, usually as a complaint at what they felt an unreasonably early bedtime.  “She just wants us locked away as long as possible.”

At any rate, Jack was a naturally early riser, and would likely have woken on his own well before the wakeup call if he hadn’t been so fatigued by the day before.  If any of the boys had known Jack better, they’d have been surprised, and likely amused, by his befuddled confusion to this first awakening.  No one knew Jack that well yet, though, and the majority of the boys had similar looks, not all of them having actually gone to sleep at lights out or being inclined to be alert first thing in the morning.

“Good morning, Jack,” said Octavius as he sat himself up and rubbed his eyes.  To this Jack gave him such a long, confused stare that the boy felt compelled to add, “I’m Octavius.  You can call me Davy.”

Jack answered this second introduction by blinking his eyes quite a lot.  Jack turned his head about to look all around the room, coming very slowly to recognize where he was.

“Alright there, Jack?” said the friendly voice of the one doing the rousing, just as though he hadn’t yanked away his blanket moments before.  “Survived your first night with us?”

Jack looked up at Donald without answering, though that didn’t seem to disturb the young teen much, and he just gave him a smile and went on to make sure the other boys were getting up, helpfully pulling away blankets or, if this didn’t cause a stir, yanking away pillows.

“We’re lucky it’s Donald,” said Octavius to Jack.  “Some of the others will overturn the mattress if you’re too slow, and the worst of them will dump water on you to wake you up.  Sometimes the mattress is still damp when we go to bed.”

Then Octavius was out of bed and finding his clothes for the day and pushing Jack’s to him.  Feeling less confused, but with an unhappy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Jack accepted the clothes and changed.  Somehow that feeling made it hard to answer his new friends out loud.  It was jarring to go from sleeping, where he half imagined himself back in an old familiar bed, to this unfamiliar new place and it was hard to shake the feeling such an awakening inspired.  Jack didn’t have words for what he felt in that moment, only that it was unpleasant.

First thing in the morning, after dressing and having a chance to splash a bit of cold water on themselves and run a comb through their hair and, all in all, do all that is necessary upon first awakening to make oneself presentable and ready to face the day, the boys went together in a line after Donald.  This time Jack followed after Octavius, though Roger had secured the spot behind him.  Jimmy was further back, pushing at one of the trailing boys who still seemed half asleep.

Jack kept his eyes wide open as they walked.  Yesterday still felt a bit like a dream, but upon this new awakening still in the same place he began to understand that this was where he was to stay and he wanted to know all about it.  The Cottage, as it was called, was quite large for its name.  It was three stories high, plus quite a large attic and a basement.  Then there was the garden shed and the stables, the large vegetable garden, the smaller garden, and what was jokingly referred to as the ‘rose garden’ which was mostly trampled down grass and gravel and only sustained the hardiest weeds.  The vegetable gardens were well maintained by necessity, considering how little of the money meant to go towards the children’s food actually served that purpose, but flowers were a luxury and not one enjoyed by the witch.

“She’s allergic,” whispered some of the boys to each other.  That was one of many theories as to what had happened to the roses the garden had once been named for.

“ _She cut them all down for an evil potion.”_

_“She hates anything prettier than her.”_

_“She cut them all down for herself and keeps them in her room.”_

_“She gave them the evil eye and they all died.”_

Jack didn’t learn much of any of this that morning.  What he learned was how the dorms were at the highest level (“to stop us escaping out the windows”) and all the boys were housed on the left side of the Cottage and all the girls were on the right.  The Witch had her own chambers.  No one knew exactly where, but it was rumored she slept on the first floor (“ _If_ she sleeps.  I heard she turns into a cat at night and prowls around in the dark.”  “ _I_ heard she turns into a bat!”).  He learned his way past the dining hall (but not inside it, to his disappointment; he also learned they weren’t to break their fast until after morning chores) and outside.

“It’s isn’t _her_ as makes us work first thing,” Donald was kind enough to explain to Jack.  “But we thought it best; cows get milked, eggs get collected, and breakfast gets cooked.  _She_ isn’t too keen on hiring workers and cooks and teachers and a hundred other mouths to feed who expect pay into the bargain.  We’re pretty self-reliant.  As long as things run smoothly, it doesn’t trouble _her_ how we go about it.”

Jack felt ravenous by the time they did eat, in the same tight crowd as before.  This time the meal was bread and milk.

“And I wish it were cheese,” whispered Roger.  “Only we’d have to make it ourself and no one wants to waste good milk trying.”

He dared to whisper because the Witch wasn’t present for their morning meal.  Jack was told she rarely was.

“Still asleep…or getting over prowling all night.”

There was a low hum of voices, which made the place feel much more natural than the evening before.  The teenagers, who seemed to be in charge, only bothered to quiet the ones whose voices became loud enough to distinguish from a distance…which was mostly from Jack’s table as it housed the youngest.  Jack didn’t have to be told to ‘Keep it down or lose your bread’.  He still hadn’t quite found his voice that morning, and used his mouth solely for the purposes of eating the meal provided.

Jack was slightly surprised to find the breakfast meal rather nice, especially after the cabbage and chicken of the evening before.  The bread was freshly baked and the milk couldn’t have gotten much fresher, having come from the Cottage’s cows.  Jack could see why no one wanted to waste the milk, though.  Spread between all of them, they each got half a cup.

“And watch your cup,” Octavius whispered to Jack, while taking his own advince and carefuly clutching his own.  “If it spills you don’t get more.  And some of the others will steal it if they can.”

Slightly alarmed by this news, Jack prudently drank his milk first, though he didn’t see any such sneaking in progress.  Most of the boys around him held their milk for the end, or dunked their bread in it.  The bread didn’t have to be guarded; platters were set in the middle of the table, freshly sliced, and the children took what they wanted.  There was enough that, at the end of the meal, some of the bread was taken away.

“We’ll get the bread back again later.”  It was Roger imparting the news this time.  “The girls like to bake a bunch in one go on baking day and it lasts as long as it lasts.  You need the milk to dunk, if the bread lasts long enough, or it might chip a tooth.”

“And don’t get caught taking bread with you,” Octavius whispered.  “They say eat all you want, but if you take it, they say it’s stealing and they punish you the same they do any thieves.”

Jack, at that point, rather wanted to ask how thieves were punished, but also rather didn’t want to know.  Anyway, he was no thief.

After breakfast was morning lessons.  Jack followed the line of sixers to their classroom, and was actually a bit shocked to discover they had an actual teacher.  He was beginning to think the entire Cottage was run by teenagers, with the Witch at the head, and the nurse as a sort of backup.

“A new one, is it?” said the teacher as Jimmy led Jack to an empty seat towards the front that turned out to share the desk with Octavius.  Jack was somewhat consoled that he’d share with a boy he’d sort of met and knew to be nice.  Then Jimmy only just saved Jack from the rather horrible faux pas of actually sitting in his new seat by grabbing his elbow.  Jimmy, Jack was beginning to think, was rather in the habit of herding the others around and keeping them out of trouble.  He was the tallest of them, and Jack wouldn’t be surprised if he learned that Jimmy was the eight year old stuck among the sixers.  He couldn’t ask, of course, especially just then while the teacher looked sternly on, but Jack wondered.

The teacher looked rather like all teachers Jack had met in the past…neatly attired, stern features that commanded respect, a pocket watch on a chain in the pocket, graying hair, and much bigger than Jack.  Even the smaller teachers tended to exude a sort of presence, and this one had it in spades, as well as being on the tall and slightly portly side.

The best teachers Jack had had also had a bit of a twinkle in their eyes that spoke of hidden pleasures and curiosity and a real interest in their subject and their students.  The twinkle was missing from this man’s eyes.  Having those stern, spiritless eyes turned on him, Jack was quite certain that he would prove to be one of the worst sort…the sort that hates questions and secretly enjoys their power over children, especially when that power can be wielded with a ruler.

“And of course no one thought to inform me,” the man continued, still staring at Jack but clearly speaking to himself.  “No school records, not even a name.  Well, boy, stand up straight” (Jack was, in fact, already as straight as an arrow from nerves, but Jack would learn this was just something the teacher spat out from time to time, like a sort of greeting) “Tell me your name, age, and how far along in school you are.”

Jack opened his mouth…and nothing came out.

“Speak when you are asked a question, boy!” the teacher ordered sternly, and Jack wanted to.  Only he wanted to tell the truth and he knew he couldn’t and he didn’t even know what he was supposed to answer for how far along he had gotten in school…because the Witch thought he hadn’t gone at all and if he said he had would that get him in trouble?

“His name is Jack Sharp, sir,” Jimmy said for him. “And he is six years old.  And I don’t believe he’s ever been to school.”

“I asked for Mr. Sharp to speak,” the teacher answered, and Jack didn’t know how Jimmy didn’t quail under the clear reprimand, but the boy only seemed to stand up taller.  Then the eyes were on Jack again.  “Well, Sharp?  Are you going to answer, or do I need to show you what happens to rude little boys who can’t answer their betters when they ask them to?”

The entire classroom was utterly silent, waiting for Jack to answer.  His heart felt heavy as it beat hard in his chest and his breath came quickly and breaking the silence of the classroom felt utterly impossible and he knew he was going to get that whipping Donald never gave or have his hand hit or anyway, something horrible and painful and he couldn’t…

Octavius stepped on his foot.  Hard.  Jack sort of yelped, and then, as though all he’d needed to speak was for the silence to be broken, he spewed out the proper words in one quick burst.

“Jack Sharp, age six, and was a first year before…before _mi mamá murió_.”

At first, the teacher merely looked astonished at the sudden answer…but that was quickly overshadowed by a disapproving glare.

“What was that last gibberish?” he demanded.  “Here we speak the King’s English.”

Jack didn’t know how to answer that, but it turned out that an answer wasn’t wanted.  The teacher, still grumbling to himself, turned his attention to the rest of the class.

“Stand up straight, the lot of you!” he ordered, and his class endeavored to force their spines into arrows.  “Well…I suppose that’s the best that can be hoped for from a classroom of castoffs and miscreants…but I’ll make proper men of you yet, see if I don’t.  You may be seated, and start on your slates.  I’ve written the problems on the board.  Mr. Sharp!”

Jack, it must be admitted, took a moment to recognize that he was the one meant.  It was only for this slight delay that he didn’t leap out of his skin just as he’d slowly allowed his heartbeat to settle while he looked about and tried to figure out where the ‘slate’ that his new teacher spoke of might be.  He did realize he was called when the teacher walked up to his desk.

“When I call your name, I except you to stand up and give me your attention, Mr. Sharp,” he sternly admonished, and Jack did so, very much ill at ease.  He still didn’t know what to expect from this new authority, and that was almost worse than if he’d known for sure he was about to receive a whipping.

The teacher didn’t mention punishment, though, and as soon as he had Jack doing what he wished, his face even lost some of its sternness, though having all that severe attention solely on him still made Jack quake.

“You will go with Mr. Johnson to receive your school supplies.  I expect the two of you to be prompt.  Johnson, here is the key to the supply closet…and I will be checking your pockets when you return so do not even think about pilfering extra chalk.”

And to Jack’s rather great relief, he was allowed to leave the classroom, albeit briefly.

At first Jimmy just strode swiftly down the hall, leaving Jack to half jog to catch up, and neither spoke to the other.  Jack, in fact, found Jimmy a bit confusing.  He couldn’t quite figure out if Jimmy liked the other boys and so looked out for them…or just liked avoiding trouble and didn’t like the other boys, or at least, didn’t like Jack.

Once they were in the supply closet (which was actually a small room, and mostly full of broken school supplies and ratty, damaged looking schoolbooks), Jimmy turned to Jack and actually smiled.

“You don’t have to be scared of Master Berring,” Jimmy said.  “He sounds fierce…but the worst punishment he ever gives is lines or standing in the hallway.  Well, he did slap Roger’s hand once with a ruler…but he tired of it after only a few hits and decided he’d made his point.  Mind, Roger did carry on for about a week after, but I don’t think it could have hurt for more than an hour.  By the way, it might have been better if you said you never had schooling…he’ll have expectations now.”

“But I did have schooling,” Jack answered, and was rather alarmed to realize he was about to start crying.  Only…only he hated lying, and schooling was the one thing he felt he could tell the truth about, and he didn’t like grownups glaring at him and he didn’t like how his own tongue seemed to betray him and his mama’s language was not gibberish.  He didn’t know what he felt…angry or sad or confused or scared.  He just felt it very strongly.

“Hey…I know it’s hard being new,” said Jimmy.  “But you’ll learn; we all did.  Just…it’s best if you do answer right away…in English.”

“I _know_ ,” answered Jack, swallowing back the tears with all his might.  “I just _couldn’t_.  I don’t know why.”

“Well…if you are going to cry, do it now.  Better than in class where everyone can see…and Master Berring hates crybabies worse than anything.  He’d rather you stand up to him, no matter how angry he acts.”

“I’m not going to cry,” Jack answered, which was yet another lie, albeit an unintentional one, because almost immediately he was.  He didn’t even see what all Jimmy gathered for him…some books that weren’t completely ruined, a slate that was mostly whole, a ruler that had been broken and glued back together neatly enough that it still had its edge, and some chalk.

“And look…he can check my pockets and he won’t find anything,” Jimmy said, and Jack managed to swallow down his tears enough to be astonished when Jimmy tucked a bit of red chalk down his sock.

“But…” Jack choked out, slightly worried that Jimmy intended for Jack to do that too…and it was stealing…wasn’t it?  Should Jack applaud the act of rebellion or scorn the act of delinquency?  Jimmy didn’t try to push any on Jack, though, just smiled, like they were friends sharing a secret.  And this surprise distracted Jack enough that he finally did manage to swallow down his tears.

“Better?  I’m always better after a bit of a cry on a bad day,” said Jimmy.  “Here…use this to wipe your face and we better go.”

Jack took what looked to be the remains of an old apron (for some reason, there was an entire basket of old aprons…for the girls’ sewing practice as it happened, but Jack had no way of knowing that) and he wiped his face, but suspected he still looked red and teary.  It was better than nothing.  And as Jimmy moved to lead them back into the hall, Jack felt comfortable enough with the other boy to finally ask, “How old are you really?  I’m eight in three months…the nurse told me.”

“If you want to call yourself almost eight, then I suppose I’m almost nine,” Jimmy answered, “But when we’re in the hall I’m six and so are you and you better not forget it.”

It felt less like a lie and more like a secret between them, and Jack smiled and followed Jimmy back to the classroom.

Schoolwork turned out not to be as horrible as Jack had feared.  It wasn’t brilliant…as Jack had suspected, their teacher didn’t care for questions and he seemed to delight in finding the student who couldn’t answer his questions (he looked seriously disappointed when he asked Jack to read aloud from his lesson book, and Jack was able to do it…Jack had always loved reading and kept it up even outside of school…just not the sort of books teachers tended to call proper reading).  It wasn’t as horrible as he feared either.  Parts were dull and boring, parts were engaging enough he didn’t notice if he was bored or not, like while doing maths, and parts were horribly difficult (geography was not an area Jack excelled at), but parts were actually enjoyable (mostly the bits that involved reading).  It was school.  School inside the same house he now lived in, but still school.  And Jimmy was right…Jack never saw the teacher hit anyone no matter how he glared or bellowed or yelled.  He did make Roger stand in a corner for whispering, and he made poor Octavius write a hundred lines for messing up his grammar work, but no one got hit.

Their afternoon meal broke up lessons.  They had it in the classroom, and it seemed that rules were slightly looser then because their teacher calmly ate his own meal (much nicer than their’s) and didn’t seem inclined to care much that the boys were whispering to each other and giggling.

The meal was cabbage again, which most of the boys grumbled over and said it should be pulled from the gardens and replaced with something nicer…like…oh…strawberries or jelly beans.  Of course, there was also the same bread as wasn’t eaten for breakfast, which was still fresh enough to be good, and a very small sliver of cold chicken, which was eaten too quickly to incite much comment as the cabbage got.

“Jelly beans don’t grow from plants,” Jimmy pointed out, not to be mean, just, he seemed to like to be exact on things.

“They’re beans, aren’t they?” Roger argued with him.  “So they should grow like beans.”

“They’re sugar and…and other things mixed together,” Jimmy said.

“They're our gardens, aren’t they?” said Jack, somewhat thoughtfully, for the idea of a jelly bean garden ignited wonderful ideas in his head.  “We take care of them.  So why couldn’t we plant interesting things in them?  Like…sugar cane, and then we could make jelly beans.  Or…coconuts and bananas.  Those are plants.  Or…oh, sunflowers.  A hundred different flowers, and then we could have bees and honey.”

“Bees sting,” Octavius said, sounding rather nervous and doubtful of the idea.  “But…but it would be nice to grow only good tasting vegetables.  I like carrots.”

“Not the way they cook them,” Roger complained.  “They turn them to mush.  Carrots are really only good raw.”

“England isn’t the right climate for sugar cane or bananas.” Jimmy pointed out.  “Those are tropical.  And flowers aren’t useful in a vegetable garden.”

“What about the rose garden?” Roger said.  “It’s supposed to have flowers.”

“We don’t want bees, do we?” Octavius asked.

“Bees aren’t so bad,” Jack said, with the confidence of a city boy who very rarely ran across them.  “And honey is lovely.”

“You better finish your cabbage,” Jimmy said, to all of them, and then more to Jack (and a reminder to everyone else), “Waste as seen as thievery, and punished as such.”

Jack still didn’t know how thieves were punished and he still didn’t want to know.  He ate his cabbage.  It wasn’t particularly nice, but he was hungry enough to prefer it to nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

Lessons went on for three more hours after mealtime was over.  It was no more pleasant in the afternoon than the morning; less in some ways.  Most notably, Jack was not in the habit of sitting still to do bookwork for hours on end.  He was used to running around outside, playing or running errands but moving, always moving.  Now he could look out the window and see open sky, gray and gloomy though the weather was, but he was meant to stay in his seat, bent over his lesson.

“Sit up straight!” barked the teacher, in the middle of explaining history or grammar.  The lessons somewhat ran together for Jack in the end, until he was no longer certain of the subject.  This led to a rather unfortunate moment when he was called to answer a question.

“Mr. Sharp!” and then, “Stand up straight when I call on you, boy!”  That was unfair, as for once Jack had answered promptly to his name and was startled enough out of the tedium of the afternoon that he was standing quite as straight as any child could be expected to stand.  Then, “Answer the question.”

Jack would gladly have answered the question…if he had any idea what the question was.  There was a certain eager gleam in the teacher’s eye as well; one that said he knew he had caught out an inattentive student and he intended to enjoy the student’s discomfort and embarrassment as far as he could take it.  There was a long moment of silence while the other children alternatively looked on Jack with pity or amusement.  Had Jack at least known the subject of the question he could have said _something_.  It would surely be wrong, but at least it would be wrong in the right way; a date for history, a number for maths, a grammar rule for grammar.  Jack had not the slightest idea where to begin with a guess.

“Well?!” bellowed the teacher with such force, that Jack automatically stammered out an answer.  It was not the answer the teacher was looking for.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” is what he said.

“What?!” answered the teacher, his eyes wide in astonishment before his features twisted in anger and he marched right over to Jack to loom over him.  “What did you call me?  A low sea toad?!”

“nnn,” Jack answered, not quite managing to say ‘no’, let alone to explain what he had actually said.

The teacher swung his arm harshly and Jack flinched away, but the man’s hand did not make contact with him.  Instead, the hand was now pointing, jabbing, towards the door.

“I will not be spoken to in such a way by the likes of you!  Out!  Out into the hallway now!  Stand up straight you crooked little gutter rat and you…you just wait!”

With some difficulty, Jack managed to make his feet move and carry him away from the shouting, towering figure.  His hands shook when he opened the door.  Then he was in the silent empty hallway and the door was closed behind him and for a long moment he simply stood there, holding himself.

From the other side of the door, he could hear the teacher’s voice shouting, “Sit up straight the lot of you!  And you can stop your snickers, Lewis and Greene, don’t think I don’t see you there, and Johnson, you answer the question, stand up straight boy!”

After a few minutes passed and nothing horrible had happened and the classroom at his back had gone silent again, Jack stopped hugging himself and moved a few steps away from the door.  The floor creaked beneath his feet and he paused, waiting to see if anyone was going to appear and scold him.  No one did.

Jack didn’t know how to feel.  He knew he was in disgrace and that he should feel scared and alone and ashamed.  What he mostly felt was relieved.  He was relieved that he was finally allowed to stand and that he did not have to sit and do lessons any longer.  He was relieved the teacher was away in the classroom and he was outside.  He could breathe.  He could twist about and move his feet and legs and torso.  He knew this was a punishment, but it did not _feel_ like a punishment, and that in itself made him feel a bit guilty.

The only real drawback of being in the hall was not knowing what was to come next.  He did not know if this was only the first part of a much worse punishment; maybe a whipping or a thousand lines or not being allowed supper or…well Jack had an unfortunately active imagination and he could think up far worse, if less likely, punishments that might come.

Still, Jack had spent all the morning, and then all the afternoon in a classroom, with only a short break in the middle.  It was good to get away.  Moreover, there was a window at the end of the hallway.

Jack did not know what he was meant to do outside of the classroom.  No one had told him.  Some children would be petrified into staying absolutely still.  Jack was not the sort of child to become petrified, difficulties with speech aside.  He went rather in the opposite direction; he had been told to go out and not been told to stay put in any particular place, so he did not stay put.  He went to the window.  He had to go quietly and carefully because the floor would creak with every step, and he suspected if anyone stuck their heads out from any of the rooms he passed that they would not be pleased to see a boy wandering the hall.  It became a sort of game, in fact, a tiptoe game.  By the time Jack reached the window, he was so distracted by his game that, far from trembling or being on the verge of tears, he was covering his mouth to hold back giggles.

From the window he could see the cows grazing in a field and he could see the trampled bit of earth that was the rose garden and he could see the fences around the Cottage and the dirt road leading to the gate that led away, back to the train station, back to London.

Jack looked out and had a strange mixture of feelings in his chest, feelings that were so large they felt too big for his small body to hold in.  He had practice holding the large dark sadness from after his mother’s death but this was a new feeling that he did not have a name for in the least.  It was a feeling that said ‘home is over there’ and he was happy to look towards it and sad to be away from it and happy to be able to look out on the world and not happy that he was apart from the outside world and still inside the Cottage.

It did not occur to Jack to try and leave, to go back to London on his own.  The very idea of not doing what the grownups in his life expected of him, to strike out on his own, was so alien a concept it did not fit inside his head.  The seeds of such an idea, however, were planted in that moment.  Jack did not have the words for what he was feeling but he would learn them.  Homesickness.  Discontent.  Anger.  And something English has no proper word for, that feeling that _the world is unfair and it shouldn’t be_.  And some children, when faced with such large feelings, react by lashing out and screaming and ranting.  And some children withdraw.  Jack could be said to do neither.  Or possibly both at once.

Jack did not shout and he did not scowl and dream up all the nasty things he wanted to happen to everyone who wronged him.  He did not cry and think on how alone he was.  He did not feel wronged so much as feel that the world around him was _wrong_.  He looked out the window and he remembered his mama and he remembered the Bianchi family.  And he remembered Signora Bianchi telling him to remember his roots.  And he smiled and, very quietly so only his own ears would hear, he sang a little tune his mama used to sing to him.  Then he sang another tune, this one a favorite of Sofia’s.  He sang in Spanish and in Italian and in English and he watched a bird flying and he watched the cows quietly grazing and the world felt a wonderful place to be and like he was not the least bit alone.

Then, just as he was starting a new song, there was noise in the hallway and he most certainly was not alone because children, boys and girls, were pouring out of the classrooms to stand in their lines.

Jack was actually startled by this.  He had almost forgotten he really was in a building full of children and that he was in disgrace and had an unknown fate looming over him.  He remembered it at once when he saw his classmates coming out.  It was not pleasant.  He could feel it physically like he had swallowed a stone and it had fallen heavily into his stomach.

The teacher did not come marching out of the classroom looking for him.  Instead, he saw Jimmy waving at him, silently calling Jack to the line the sixers were forming of their own accord.  Jack went, filing into place behind the taller boy.

“Hey, that’s my space,” the boy behind Jack hissed, and then Roger slid around in front of Jack.  This led to a brief chain reaction when the next boy didn’t want to lose his place either, and ended with Jack, without moving a step, finding himself four more places back.  Then it was Octavius behind him, and he did not seem to mind Jack in front.

“Stand up straight!” barked a severe voice, and Jack jumped, then endeavored to stand straighter than he ever had in his life.  He expected at any moment to be called out of the line for the rest of his punishment.  Nothing happened.

“Off you go then, quick march!” barked their teacher, and the line started to move, down the hall and down the stairs and finally out the door to the trampled bit of dirt that was the rose garden.  The teacher did not follow.

Jack was rather surprised to realize a second line was walking alongside theirs, made up of children roughly the same size but wearing dresses.  He had become so used to always being separate from the girls that they might as well have been in a separate building.  The two lines were rather long as it was more than just the sixers; Jack would later learn everyone age five to eight went together every day after lessons for exercise.

The teenager Henderson was waiting for them in the rose garden, alongside a young woman.  They both looked a bit bored.  Henderson sat himself down on the short fence that surrounded the large bit of dirt while the girl sat herself on the ground.  She pulled a book out of her pocket.

“Go on then, you know what to do,” Henderson called out to them.  Jack had no idea what to do but very quickly learned.  It was not a difficult task to understand; what they were to do was walk in their lines around the garden.  There was nothing more to the activity than that; they did not push and shove or run or jog or skip or whisper or particularly look about.  They walked and they looked at the person in front of them and that was it.  Jack was rather confused why Roger and the other boys were so concerned with being at the front of the line.  In fact, there were so many children that they more or less encircled the entire garden so the lines had no proper beginning or end.

The two lines walked together, so Jack spent his time with a new companion walking at his side, but she stared straight ahead and it was clear they were not expected to talk.  Even more surprising, no one pushed or shoved or dragged their feet either.

The activity went on for almost a full hour.  Jack did not much mind walking, even walking for so long without rest, but walking to no purpose and without any variation was even worse than sitting at a desk for hours, where at least the lessons changed.  Jack did not want to walk; he wanted to run.  He wanted to dance and skip and play.

After that hour, a bell rang from somewhere.  The girl put down her book.  The boy stopped playing with a bit of string, which is how he had passed the time.  The walking children stopped walking.  There was a long moment of stillness when no one spoke and no one moved.  Then a voice called from the direction of the building, “Fivers to me!” and part of their long snakey line about the garden broke away.  Next a voice called “eights!” and the tallest of their group left, boys in one row and girls in another.  By the time Donald’s voice called out “Sixers to me!” Jack understood well enough to move with his line. 

Donald led them, girls and boys alike, to a water pump where they were to wash their hands and faces.  Most of the children also took the opportunity to have a drink.

“Survived your lessons, Jack?” Donald asked in a friendly manner as he offered Jack a small hand towel afterwards.  Jack managed a small smile in answer and Donald did not seem to expect more.  Everyone lined up again and Jack was starting to feel dizzy from being sent this way and that and never knowing where he was going next.

Jack did not have to wonder long because they were brought directly to the dining hall.  They joined the five and eight year olds at their table, squished in as tight as they were able, and Jack could feel everyone relaxing from the rigid silence maintained before.

“What was that?” Jack whispered to Octavius, who of course was still at his side.  “The walking in circles?”

“That was exercise,” answered Octavius.  “We always walk in the rose garden.”

“That was a rose garden?” Jack asked next.

“That’s what we call it,” Octavius answered, a bit doubtful himself about this.  Some of the other boys around them then proffered their opinions on what happened to the roses.  Most agreed there were roses at some point and that the witch had something to do with their being gone, but the stories varied greatly.  The tamest, by far, was “I think they just got neglected and died because she don’t care for pretty flowers.”

After learning rather more than Jack had wanted to about the evils of the witch and the supposed fate of the roses, Jack turned to Octavius again and brought the conversation around to a point that had particularly been worrying him.

“What happens…after you are sent out of the classroom?  Is there more punishment?”

“If Master Berring forgets about you…nothing happens at all,” answered Octavius.  “He usually forgets.  If he remembers, he might tell _her_.  And she orders a whipping.  Or if she is really angry she locks you in the basement.  That is the worst.  I heard…I heard a boy was locked in for a whole night and he was eaten by rats.”

For some reason, hearing that did not set Jack at ease.  This set off another round of whispered stories, this time about the horrors of the basement.  None of the boys directly around Jack had ever been in there, but they all knew the stories.

“It’s as dark as night, even in the middle of the day,” and “She keeps rats as pets and if she’s really angry she’ll tell them to bite you,” and “There’s something worse than a rat that lives down there, you can hear it breathing” and “I heard there are snakes,” and “I heard she comes down in the middle of the night and cuts off your toes for a potion,” and “It’s cold as a grave and dark as a tomb,” and “She whips them first, herself, a proper whipping,” and “I heard the witch….” “Shush!  Don’t you call her that or we’ll all be locked down there!”

They had time to whisper.   It took around half an hour for all the different age groups to slowly join them, filling the cafeteria with a growing noise, until finally it was time to stand for prayer and the food was served.

This time, the witch did not join them at the dais.  The food was chicken and cabbage again.  Jack ate his share, though it was hard.  In the first place, he was becoming quite sick of chicken and cabbage.  In the second, he still could feel that hard rock in his stomach and it seemed to fill him up and made him not want to eat.  He did not dare leave any food though, and he thought he should be hungry, so he ate.  All the while, as everyone finished their meal and then obediently followed their lines to put away their dishes and then went on to evening chores, Jack waited for the teacher or the witch to spring out and demand he face his punishment.

It seemed Master Berring had forgotten about Jack, though, or did not care enough to punish him further.  The rest of the evening followed the same pattern as the day before, except the boys were less tense in the garden because the witch had never shown and so the rule of silence was less rigidly upheld during the meal.  Octavius managed to not get dirt in his hair this time and so was not quite so damp after.  They had chapel time.  Then they returned to their dormitory.

Jack managed to not burst into tears.  The other boys were a little less interested in him, having known him now for a full day.  Jack mostly whispered to Octavius, asking questions about how everything worked.  A few of the other boys joined them.  It seemed sharing horror stories about the Cottage and the witch was a favored pastime.

“Yes, we do get cabbage a lot.  We only get the chicken once or twice a week, though.  Mostly we stuff ourselves on bread.”

“I don’t know any of the girls.  We never talk.  I don’t think we’re allowed to.”

“I talk to Trudy sometimes,” this said with great importance and daring, “She says their lessons are mostly needlework.  They have book lessons in the morning and sewing all afternoon.  I thought it sounded better than us, doing books all day, but she says her fingers get so tired and achy and that doesn’t sound nice at all.”

“Henderson isn’t too bad.  Richards is the worst.  If he says he’s going to whip you, he’ll really do it.  I think he likes bossing us around.”

“Donald is the best.  He’ll help you if you need it.”

In the end, as he curled up in his bed with Octavius, he fell asleep with a thoughtful sort of frown on his face.  In his heart were new thoughts and new ideas.  They went something along the lines of ‘things are not right here’.  And that thought was followed by ‘things could be better’.  And that was followed by ‘Things need to change’.

Jack was not a rebel. He was not a rebellious sort of child.  It is not the rebels who really change the world.  It is the quiet thinkers, the ones who look around with open eyes and whisper that most insidious of questions, “Why?” or even worse, “Why not?”

Jack was not a rebel but he also most definitely was not a lamb.


	6. Chapter 6

The difficulty with the seeds of ideas is that they are all potential without much to show for where that potential might lead.  A seed that will grow up into a disaster looks much the same, at its birth, as a seed that will grow into greatness.

Jack did not contemplate this when the idea first came to him.  He did not wonder whether this idea might grow into something good or bad.  Children are rarely so introspective.  Even so, he could feel something looming; a suggestion of danger.  Of course the idea was dangerous.  Jack knew the witch would not like it.  Jack feared the witch.  But he feared not changing things even more.  He feared staying year after year under the name Jack Sharp.  Mostly, he feared forgetting who he really was.

Jack did not think those thoughts either, but he felt them strongly.

Jack was a naturally well behaved child, but that fear of losing himself made him cling to everything about himself that was him.  Which was why, after about a week in his new home, Jack got into his first real trouble.

Jack’s first week was a learning experience.  He suffered through the routine of his new life for three more days, managing to not be sent out in the hall those days, and then through a Sunday which was even worse than the rest of the week because not only did they all have to sit in the chapel for extra hours, the Witch, contrary to all expectations, joined them and put everyone on edge.  Then instead of lessons they all went to their classrooms and the older children led the younger in reading bible verses, and they all had to memorize a bit to recite after dinner.

“If you get it wrong, you have to write it a thousand times, and then you have to recite it again, and if it is still wrong you have to spend the night all alone in the chapel and you have to stay there without food or a blanket or anything until you learn your verses.”

That was Roger, in a whisper, in the manner of sharing a ghost story, and sounding far too gleeful considering the tale was all too true and real, almost as though he hoped someone would suffer that exact fate.

“What if…what if my words don’t come?” Jack had whispered, to Jimmy and Octavius rather than to Roger.

“Make them,” said Jimmy.

“I’ll step on your foot again,” said Octavius.

Luckily, the person Jack had to recite his lines to was Donald, or Jack might well have frozen up and not been able to recite.  Donald was familiar enough by then, and friendly enough, that Jack recited them out straight off.  In fact, none of his new friends had to write lines, let alone spend a night in the chapel.

Then it was Monday.  Jack had been at the Cottage for not quite a week.  He knew all his dorm mates by name, and called them friends.  Jack knew his way around his new home.  He knew the schedule.  He knew he was very sick of cabbage.  He knew that his limbs ached to really move.  He knew that his name was not Mr. Sharp and he was not six years old.  He knew he was not Italian.  He knew his mother did not speak gibberish.

He knew that there was an entire world outside of the window, outside of the Cottage.  London was somewhere out there.  The sky filled the window, and the sky was so much larger than everything, and that spoke to Jack somehow.  It was like a constant, whispering reminder that Jack might be small…but so was everyone else.  The sky was always bigger.  The world was always wider.  Somehow, just looking up at the huge everything that was the sky made something inside of Jack bigger too.  It was like opening a window in his mind and letting possibilities fly in with the wind and plant themselves, waiting to grow into something new.

He woke up on Monday, earlier than anyone else, and he went to the window.  There was nowhere else to go; they were locked in at night and there was no light in the room except the soft glow of the predawn.  Jack went to the window, and looked out at the free sky and remembered when his life was different.  When it was better.

And then he thought, “Why?”

It was a dangerous question to ask, and he wasn’t even sure what he meant by it.  Why was life the way it was?  Why did he like his old life better?  Why did he not like the Cottage?  Why…perhaps even…why could they not change things and make them good?

And questions like that are dangerous seeds that lead to new and dangerous ideas, the sorts of ideas that could end in disaster…or in something glorious.

Jack looked out on an awakening world, and something inside himself awoke as well.  He smiled, because watching the sky awaken was beautiful in a quiet way, like the opposite of loneliness because he was alone but he was sharing the rising sun with the world.

And when Henderson unlocked their door and marched in and started overturning mattresses, shouting, “Rise, all rise!” Jack kept smiling.  Well, he did frown for a moment when he saw some of his new friends fall on the floor and was afraid they were hurt, but when no one really was he smiled again.

And when he got to go out into the garden in the early morning he smiled at all the growing plants.

“What is wrong with you?” Roger asked him.  Roger was not at all fond of leaving his somewhat comfortable bed to go outside into the early morning air for chores.  Smiles first thing in the morning were rare, at least without something amusing happening.

“Nothing is wrong with me,” Jack answered, now slightly frowning out of confusion at the question.  When Roger only harrumphed at him, Jack returned the question.  “Is something the matter with you?”

“It’s too early and I’m hungry and we’re doing chores,” Roger answered.  “And you keep smiling.”

“Well…it’s a nice morning, isn’t it?” said Jack.  “And I like being out with the plants.  We should plant more, new plants.  We should sing to them.  I think they would like that.”

“He’s gone batty,” Roger said, to the others not to Jack.  Jack didn’t mind.  He was used to Roger by then and did not much mind what he thought.  Jack returned to smiling and Roger returned to grumbling.  And that might have been just a tiny exchange of words during morning chores that would be quickly forgotten about, except that Jack decided to act on his own thoughts. 

He did not have any seeds to plant new plants, of course, but he pushed little bits of leaves and twig into the soil and he told them, “And you can grow into a jellybean tree, and you can be apples, and you can be cheese…”

“Cheese does not grow in the ground,” said Jimmy, his tone confused by Jack’s antics more than anything.

“They do in my garden,” answered Jack, and then half singing he chanted “Apples and cheese grow on trees, and jelly beans, and lots of greens…”

“Ew, no let’s not have those!” Octavius protested.

“And reds and oranges and yellows too,” Jack went on, “A rainbow of candy for my stew...”

The song, if it could be called a song with the way the tune meandered as aimlessly as the words, was oddly captivating.  At any rate, the other children stopped interrupting him or asking him what he was doing and started to giggle or to shout out their own ideas, and were immensely pleased when shouts of ‘and popcorn!’ and ‘liquorish’ and ‘cocoa’ found their way into his tune: ‘We’ll have a popcorn bush…and a pond of mush (ew, was the response to that one), and how I wish for liquorish grown up tall for a dish and so, you must know, let’s make the pond out of cocoa (better than mush, was the response).’

“What are you doing?!”

That was the response of Henderson.  Most of the boys, who were somewhat wary of Henderson, who was not the worst of their overseers but far from the best, immediately turned all their attention back to the garden, trying to act as though they had never thought Jack’s song amusing and they had been bent over their work the entire time.  Jack also stopped singing, but he didn’t stop smiling and he answered the question just as though it had been voiced in a benevolent and interested tone rather than an enraged snarl.

“Singing to the garden.”

“This is morning chores, not choir practice,” Henderson answered, and both Jimmy and Octavius stepped on Jack’s shoes to try and silently get him to stop talking for once.  They failed.  Jack was in a strange sort of happy mood that made him almost defiantly cheerful.

“Gardens grow better with a bit of song,” Jack insisted in an authoritative manner.

“And I say they don’t, so stop the songbird lark before I give you a reason to sing.” 

“As you like,” said Jack with a bit of a shrug, and he turned back to his work, which he had kept up even while singing before.  Henderson was somewhat suspicious that the words weren’t really an agreement, but decided that his warning had been understood, and he turned away.  He got about five steps.  Then Jack started whistling.  He also started dancing a bit, but that was less to do with his song and more to do with evading Jimmy and Octavius’s attempts to get him to stop before he got in trouble.

“I warned you!” Henderson shouted, marching back and grabbing Jack by the arm.  “I’ll give you a whipping you won’t forget!”

Jack would rather have liked to say something at that point, perhaps ‘sorry, please don’t, I’ll be good’ or perhaps ‘You never said I couldn’t whistle, you said don’t sing, and I wasn’t’ or perhaps ‘Beat me as hard as you like, I’ll whistle all the same and you can’t stop me!’.  He probably would not have said the last or the first, though all those words were mixed up in his thoughts and he did want to at least plead his case that whistling was not singing.  Of course he couldn’t say any of that because his words deserted him again.

His friends were not so encumbered.

“Don’t, he’s sorry, please don’t!” said Octavius.  Henderson kept dragging Jack along roughly enough that Jack had trouble keeping his feet beneath him and was already wincing from the hold on his arm.  Roger tried saying, “You didn’t say we couldn’t whistle” which was not received any better.

“Don’t you whip Jack or…or I’ll tell Donald!” Jimmy said.  At that, Henderson did pause.  Emboldened, Jimmy said, “I’ll tell Donald you hit Jack just for being happy and…and we’ll just see what Donald says about that!”

“Tell him whatever you like,” Henderson answered, “And do keep up that noise; you’ll be next, see if you aren’t.”  This quieted the other boys to Henderson’s satisfaction, but it was clear he _did_ care what Donald might be told, because he stopped eying the supply shed for an item to use as a whip or cane like he had intended.  Not wanting to be seen to back down completely, he settled for using his own hand.

It was by no means pleasant for Jack; he hated not being able to protest and he hated the uncertainty of not knowing how hard his punishment was going to go until it was over and he hated having someone bigger and stronger than him making him bend over so he could be hit. He also hated that all the other boys could see and hear him being punished. But it was not the brutal beating that had been threatened either; Jack had certainly had worse.  By the end of it, Jack’s face was red and his eyes were teary, but mostly from strong emotions rather than the pain, and his backside stopped even feeling sore by the end of chores.  It did rather dim his happy mood and his smile.  For at least fifteen minutes.

It was an unpleasant ordeal, but after, when he was sent back to do more gardening, Octavius tried to gently wipe away his tears (to ill effect; they were gardening and his hands were not exactly clean, but it was kindly meant) and Roger, who generally was the expert in getting everyone else to do the difficult bits, helped Jack with a particularly dense clot of earth, and Jimmy mumbled, too quietly for Henderson to hear, “And I _will_ tell Donald”, so Jack felt better almost at once simply because he had his friends at his side.  By the time chores were over, the soothing act of gardening had calmed away all the confusing upset feelings that being punished had ignited.

Washing up was not pleasant either; Henderson was still cross with Jack and it showed through an unnecessarily thorough dunking.  In fairness to Henderson, Jack’s face was streaked with dirt, but there was no need to remedy that by having Jack’s whole head in the bucket, and his hands were clean long before Henderson admitted them to be and allowed Jack to stop scrubbing.  This time it was Octavius trying to share his damp towel with Jack and Jack who shivered all through breakfast.  He found he rather appreciated how closely they were crammed; his friends at least were warm.

During lessons, Jack looked out at the open sky, and he smiled.

This day, he did not even last until their break for mealtime before he was sent out into the hall.  Jack was more used to their teacher and his strict moods and he did not waste any time with feeling nervous about his punishment.  The moment he was free of the classroom, he immediately started his careful creeping steps towards the window, wary of the creaking floorboards.  His spirits were completely lifted by the time he reached it.

They were dampened as time moved on and no one called Jack back for the afternoon meal, but it was still worth it to stare out at the cows and to wriggle his body however he liked and to softly sing up to the sky instead of sitting still and straight for hour after hour in the classroom.  Of course sitting for hours at a window was not a huge improvement.  It occurred to Jack to wonder if he could not leave the hall entirely.  He could go down and greet the cows in the field or see how his twigs had grown or learn what was in all the closed rooms in the great big building that was his new home.

For at least half an hour he resisted the urge, knowing the very real trouble he could get into and that it was not allowed.  But he was only seven, and no one had actually told him he was not allowed to wander, and the strange mood that had awoken in him that morning was now being fed by the open sky that afternoon.  He played his creeping game again, this time to get to the stairs without being caught.

He did have enough sense to not go visit the cows.  In the first place, he knew that if he could see them out the window, someone else could see them out the window and they could also see Jack.  In the second, when he went as far as the fence, he discovered that close up cows are quite a bit bigger than far away window cows, and perhaps they weren’t feeling friendly.

His garden was not much growing, but he sang it a few new words just to be certain of things.  Some of the words sounded quite good, and he sang them a few times, and maybe they could be a proper song and not just a nonsense play song.

Then he went to the rose garden.  He looked at all the not-there roses, and sang for them too.

He knew he should go back to the hall.  He should be there to get into the line and not get into trouble.  He knew he should.  But there was something about his strange mood that did not let him go sneaking back, that kept him in the rose garden, right up to the time when all the children came down in their straight lines to find him there.

Jack probably did not deserve to be as lucky as he was, considering he was misbehaving and he _knew_ he was misbehaving, but by great chance the first ones down the stairs that day were the sixers, and by the time their observers for the day had joined them (Donald that day, and a girl Jack didn’t know the name of but had seen about), Jack was innocently marching in his line with the other boys.  The girls had given him a look, but they didn’t say anything and Jack could have gotten away with an entire afternoon of play.

Jack’s feet, unfortunately, did not want to give up skipping and running and jumping for marching in lines around the rose garden.  Jack managed to keep his wayward feet in check for two rounds, before he started skipping instead.

“Hey now, boy!” called the girl that Jack didn’t know the name of, though to be fair she clearly did not know Jack’s name either.  “March proper or you won’t get your supper.”  This was a rather dire threat, considering the earlier missed meal.  Luckily, Donald came to his rescue.

“And why shouldn’t they skip?” he asked.  “A bit dull, this walking in circles.”

“ _She_ wouldn’t like it,” the girl answered doubtfully.

“ _She_ isn’t here.  She left this morning to go see the mayor and ask him for more lovely supplies for all of us.  Isn’t she generous, always asking the mayor for help?  So I say let them skip.  I dare say they’ll get tired of it soon and want to walk.”

To that, his companion simply shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, ‘do what you like, then’.  So Jack skipped, and hopped, and many of the other children did the same.  Some did not want to, and the lines got a bit muddled because some took the opportunity to walk more slowly while others took the opportunity to rush around and most followed Jack’s example and so the fast ones had to dodge around the slow ones and Roger was rather in danger of being trampled when he thought to use the new freedom to sit down instead.

“No sitting!” Donald called, “It’s still exercise!”

As Donald predicted, most of the children tired after a short while and just enjoyed a slight spring in their steps.  Jack skipped the whole while and felt more alive than he had in a week.

“You are looking lively this afternoon,” Donald commented to Jack as he had them all line up again properly to be led to their meal.

“I feel happy today,” Jack answered.

“Henderson hit him earlier,” Jimmy was prompt to add, “For whistling.”  Donald frowned.

“It didn’t hurt much,” Jack was quick to say, feeling a strange sort of guilt that they were going to get Henderson in trouble when Jack wasn’t hurt, and then, “I don’t see why we can’t sing when we work in the garden.  The plants like singing.  And it’s fun.”

“He’s been like that all day,” Roger commented, “Like he’s gone batty.”

Jack wondered why feeling happy was the same thing as going batty.

The witch was still gone for their mealtime.  And it was Donald who supervised evening chores, and he did not mind Jack singing to the plants and he let them use two towels if they needed a lot of washing after for drying off so they wouldn’t be damp for chapel time.

When they were finally left to themselves for bedtime, Jack was extremely popular.  All the boys wanted to know if his backside still hurt from being hit, and how he had gotten to the rose garden before them (how he dared), and did he know anymore silly songs?  The answer to the first was no he didn’t hurt at all, though his arm was a little sore where Henderson dragged him, and he was at the rose garden because his feet needed to move and as for songs…

“I don’t know the garden song,” Jack explained, “That’s just a game, where you make words come out alike.  Like I say, ‘I like peas’ and then I have to think a new word that sounds like peas. Maybe ‘if you please’.

“I _don’t_ like peas, if you please,” Octavius answered, to the general merriment of everyone.

“You shouldn’t act out, Jack,” Jimmy said, his tone extremely serious and the laughter died away.

“I don’t mean to,” answered Jack.  “Don’t you ever get into trouble at all, Jimmy?”

“Only when I mean to,” Jimmy answered.  And he pulled a bit of chalk from his sock and, to all the boys’ great delight, he pushed one of the chests away from a bed and drew an apple tree on the floor beneath it.  “There,” he said, “That’s the tree in Jack’s garden.”

“Jack’s garden had a jellybean tree, too,” Octavius pointed out.

“I can’t draw what isn’t real,” Jimmy answered, but the garden things he _did_ draw were quite good, particularly for a sixer, even if he _was_ really eight; they were good enough for a ten year old.

“I want to draw too,” said Roger.

“Then you should have gotten your own chalk,” answered Jimmy.

“Someone’s coming,” said one of the boys whose turn it was to listen at the door, so the chalk went back in Jimmy’s sock and the chest was pushed over the drawing and everyone threw on their night clothes.

Jack curled up next to Octavius and he dreamed about a garden and it was quite nice until a rose told Jack that someone has been killing roses and was it him? The roses were very angry.

“I’m writing the mayor to tell him you are a naughty boy who can’t stand up straight!  And you have been killing roses!” 

And there was a scary bit when the angry rose was going to wrap its thorns around him and tear him to bits but Jimmy (who was just _there_ , in the way dreams sometimes go) said ‘roses can’t talk’ and scribbled over the rose and it turned into a tree instead and they climbed and climbed into the morning.

It was a good day and a good night.  But it was also the start of Jack’s troubles.  Because the seeds had been planted, and they only needed a bit of attention and time to grow.


End file.
